Rise of a Star
by Iluvbeyblade
Summary: Defining moments in a life where fame began too early. Modelling, singing, medical issues and beyblading. One moment that stood out above the rest. MingMing centric


This could have been a very long A/N, so be thankful! God only knows it's long enough as it is.

Dedicated to **Lamanth**, to my amazing Cloud, my bestie, to celebrate an entire year of friendship, and to the amazing feat of the two of us putting up with each other's oddities. (Though I _still_ say you're easier to put up with!) I luv you so much. (glomps) And I agree with you; it's gone fast, yet it hasn't. Bring on this time next year, and as many after it as come, 'cause I never want to lose you as a friend.

Sap endeth now, everyone. You can laugh at me now.

Ok, this oneshot is in four parts, seperated by age and by different markers to make it easier. Why didn't I turn them into chapters? 'Cause I'm a lazy cow. There are similarities to Masks, just because I love that fic.

_Maman -_ Mummy

_Mme - _shortened form of Madame

Please forgive typos, I was working to a deadline and almost didn't reach it, so there was no time for a spellchecker! I'm sorry!

Enjoy!

* * *

"Oh, you want Mimi in today? A pyjama shoot? Well ... I see ... but she's feeling a bit under the weather today ... has the most awful runny cold ... oh, if you insist, but please have tissues on set! And I take no responsibility if she infects anyone else!" 

Watching her Maman idly, the tiny girl sniffed distractedly and burrowed further into her newly-discovered pile of cushions. Curling up, she shut her eyes and let out a pleased little sound at the warmth of her new hideout. A cry of alarm woke her up from her half doze,

"No, Mimi sweetie, not the cushions! They're three hundred Euros each! Come on, out you get!"

"Mmph?" Sleepy eyes blinked up at the fussing woman, their mahogany depths very dark for a child of four, a throwback to her father's Japanese parentage. "_Oui_?"

"Come on, sweetheart, up!" Disgruntled, Ming-Ming crawled out and glared at Maman.

"Whyyyy?"

"You're going out to do some more modelling today, won't that be nice?" A scowl proved otherwise. "It's a pyjama shoot - you can lie down in a lovely big bed!"

"Ok!" Ming-Ming smiled sunnily, her naturally good humour restored by the news, and wiped her nose with her sleeve with a loud sniff.

"Aw, is my baby feeling yucky?" Ming-Ming nodded vigorously, sending short, fluffy hair flying everywhere and hoping that she would be able to get to that nice bed Maman had suggested soon.

"The baby _is_ yucky." Ming-Ming stuck her tongue out at her brother Toni, who tossed his hair and with an aggressive flash in his light, unmistakeably French eyes, pulled his face into a nasty expression that not many five year-old's would have even knew existed. For his efforts, he was scooped up by the slender, Oriental man who stood behind him and borne off upside-down, screaming and kicking in part hysteria, part laughter.

"_Papa_!" Ming-Ming wailed and, getting to her feet, hurried after her departed father and brother. She wanted to be upside-down too!

Recalled by Maman's sharp command, she sullenly wandered out of the room and over to where her coat hung on the knarl post. Feeling brave, she attempted to get into it but was left looking rather dismally at the floor and shuffling her feet until Maman came to help her slip her second arm into the sleeve and negotitate with the buttons.

Evil buttons.

Sniffling miserably, into the car she went with a bunch of tissues almost too big for her tightly-clenched fist, and sat in silence for a good half of the journey, picking at a loose strip of leather in the seat. In the second half of the journey and well into the tissues, she began to perk up, and to sing softly under her breath the most ridiculous of all French songs, "_Frere Jacques_" until it made her throat sting.

"Maman, can I have a sweetie?" she begged. Two Fruit Pastels later, she sat back and shut her eyes, sucking away blissfully at a third.

"Although, why I'm giving them to you, I really don't know. You'll repay the favour by getting all over-excited, won't you?"

"I won't!" Ming-Ming protested.

----

"Ok, darling ... now, just open your eyes for me ... that's it, perfect! Beautiful!" The smile the photographer had so much trouble getting out of far older models appeared faultlessly on his screen, prompted by no more than the simple truth told to a little girl honest enough to appreciate it. The artist inside him whooped with joy and wished for many more pictures of the striking, cuddly, turquoise "cutie", while the humanist in him hoped feverently that she would get out of the business before it turned her into a spoilt, pouting little madam like the thousands of others that found their fame in his brand of art.

_Never work with children or animals_. Screw that; never work with anyone older than eight who pouts to get their way. It leads to nothing but trouble.

-----

Ming-Ming looked reproachfully up at Maman and put her hands tightly over her ears to block out the sounds of loud music and people shouting to make themselves heard. Why did Maman have to bring her here? It wasn't fair!

"I don't like it here, Maman! Can we go home?"

"Ssh, Mimi, I have to see a very important person." Maman looked around distractedly before spotting who she wanted. "Oh, and look! He brought his grandson along! His grandmother is French so he speaks it, you can talk!" Ming-Ming scowled and kicked the floor. She didn't want to talk to some stupid boy! She wanted to go _home_!

"But Mamaaaaaan ..." she whined. Maman gave her a sharp look and started towards the tall, grey-haired man in his late fifties. Ming-Ming screwed her face up and refused to move, only to reconsider that as she was dragged across the floor by her hand. "Owww!" She twisted around in Maman's grip until she had her feet back under her, and shuffled sullenly along.

Leaning on Maman's leg and staring at the floor in boredom, she realised that someone was staring at her. With her temper very much roused, she looked up and met the unyielding gaze with a fierce one of her own. After a few seconds in a staring match, she couldn't restrain herself. Reaching up, she poked one of the blue marks on the boy's soft, plump cheek and felt the dry, flaky texture that she automatically associated with make-up. The boy jerked back, as far out of her reach as possible, outraged and, though she was sure he didn't know that she knew it, a little scared too.

"What're you _doing_?" he demanded, stepping towards and trying to use his height to intimidate her. She giggled, completely unfazed.

"You wear make-up!" she announced loudly, through the giggles.

"I don't!" He drew himself up as tall as he could and gave her an angry look. "It's facepaint!"

"Isn't!"

"Is!"

"Isn't!"

"Is!"

"Isn't!"

"I shouldn't even be talking to _you_." His voice dripped with superiority.

"Why not? Maman said I could talk to you!" Ming-Ming returned, positively sizzling with rage. _No-one_ contradicted Maman! He stuck his tongue out and folded his arms, closing his eyes in smug indifference to her anger. "Anyway ... you have weird eyes!" Ming-Ming continued, rapidly running out of ammunition.

"They're the same colour as yours, fuzzball."

"I'm not a fuzzball!" Ming-Ming shouted, her voice competing with her lower lip and chin for the prise of the most severe case of wobblies, her eyes hot and stinging with frustrated tears. He scoffed at her and flicked one of her curls.

"How is that not fuzzy?" he demnded, flicking it again.

"You're a bully!" she cried at last, her face crumpling and turning red as tears squeezed their way past her heroic defences. She was tired, she had a cold, she just wanted to go _home_! Sniffing hard, she sat down with a bump and opened her mouth in readiness for a good long wail.

"Don't cry!" It was an order rather than a plea, and Ming-Ming was about to cry all the louder just to spite him when she saw his uncomfortable look. It was such an out-of-place expression on on his pale, smug, round face that she couldn't stifle a giggle, the threat of a grumpy tantraum receding for the time being. There was a long silence, which was broken by Ming-Ming blowing her nose with a bubbling, trumpet-like sound. The boy made a sound in his throat that could have been either amusement or disgust.

"What's your name?" Ming-Ming asked from her comfy position on the floor.

"Kai. What are you even doing here?" he asked.

"I'm a model." she said, with a world-weary sigh that she had copied from her mother and that sounded strange and wrong coming from her mouth. "What about you?" Kai smirked and avoided her question with a curt,

"I'm a beyblader, and I'm gonna be the best." She looked at him, interest piqued. She had heard of beyblading and seen the shiny adverts on television.

"Is it fun?" she asked. Kai shrugged.

"It's ok. What's being a model like?" She stuck out her bottom lip in an exaggerated pout. "You don't like being a model?" She shook her head moodily. "What _do_ you like?" Huge brown eyes shone with a sudden inner light as she said happily;

"I like singing!" Kai rolled his eyes, a mannerism which he too had picked up from his elders and that didn't look right on his face yet. Turning away, he told her one, final thing in the self-absorbed, careless way that would win him every heart he desired as he aged;

"Then sing, idiot."

**----------**

Her voice went wrong; quite suddenly. It snagged in her throat as she opened her mouth to sing, and all that came out was a faint hissing sound, like a kettle beginning to come to the boil. With fear shooting icy adrenalin around her chest, she swallowed, hard, and shot a terrified look at her accompanist. Giving her a small, tight smile meant to reassure, the pianist began again. She melted with relief as her voice left her throat without a hitch and sounding exactly as it was supposed to; high and clear and sweet.

She didn't dare look at anyone. Not her parents, not the packed audience, not the judge. Scarlet-faced and trembling, she stared fixedly at the celing with tear-blurred eyes and tried her best to pretend that nothing had gone wrong. The last bars of music faded to the tense silence of anticipation and worry. Shame-faced, Ming-Ming dipped her head jerkily at the judges and scurried offstage, loose blue curls swinging, useless little wings, trying their very best to remove her from the situation she found herself in.

Buried safely in her mother's arms, she acted as though she couldn't hear as the judge began to speak. She already knew all that mattered; her mistake at the beginning had cost her the competition.

"And Ming-Ming .. where are you, Ming-Ming?"

"Not here." the girl muttered sullenly.

"You've got a truly beautiful voice my dear, quite astounding in someone your age, and if you just sort those nerves out, you'll be a star in no time!" Ming-Ming raised her head and smiled at the judge, a suprised, delighted smile that lit up her entire face. The judge smiled back at her, but took his gaze away a fraction too quickly. Ming-ming noticed it and frowned, but disregarded it, the weight of disappointment at losing the competition _again_ heavy in her chest.

-----

She stared as the judge came over from his seat as the room began to empty and spoke to her singing teacher, then frowned again as her teacher came to speak to Maman. What was going on? Worry froze her in her place until her mother came over and matter-of-factly told her exactly what was going on.

What were nodules? How did you get them? Did she have them? Why did they have to go the hospital? Bewildered questions raced through the tweleve year-old's mind as she flashed a plastic smile at her teacher and the judge and walked obediently from the room.

-----

"Why were you late? We have an appointment to keep, you know! I told you the time! What did I need to do, engrave it on your forehead?" Ming-Ming sunk lower in her car seat and listened to her mother's tirade in angry, frustrated silence.

She had _tried_ to tell her why she had been late; they had been doing a test and the teacher threatened her with a detention if she talked or put her hand up! Then, the test had ended and she had asked "Is it twenty-five past yet, Mme?" only to be told in a scornful voice that no, it was thirty-five past. Never mind that she had told Mme at the beginning of the lesson the time that she needed to leave at!

"This is _so_ unfair." she mumbled.

"What did you say, young lady?" Her mother's voice was icy.

"Nothing, Maman ..." Silence resumed, and didn't let up until they were sitting in a consultant's office. Even then, the plump man with his dark suit and his certificates on the wall was the only person to talk for what seemed like a long, long time.

She could probably kid herself that she wasn't scared if she tried, but right now, she was more concerned about the fact that she was about to have a camera put down her throat. Or, to be specific about entry points; down her _nose_.

Oh, and never, ever trust a doctor when he says, "This will only sting a bit." That was a lesson she learnt the hard and painful way, when it took two different, but equally painful and stinging types of local anaesthetic and a failed exploration with the camera before her gag reflex was suitably numbed to allow the tiny camera on the end of a length of black cable to slip down her throat and reach her vocal chords.

She knew the numbness shouldn't have spread to her head, yet her mind was reeling and confused as she left the hospital, cluching tightly to Maman's hand and worrying over what the plump consultant had said.

That every person had two sets of vocal chords, and that the smaller ones weren't used normally. But somehow, she had disabled her "proper" ones, and her voice was coming from the smaller set; both for speaking and singing. She appeared to be managing fine on them, but of course, this was not a desirable state of affairs, and did Madame want to book little Ming-Ming in for speech therapy?

Less of the little, fatso, I'm twelve and already more famous than you'll ever be, she thought angrily. True, the success of her singing career was almost entirely due to the recognition and contacts gained through five years of modelling, but the continuation of said career was down to her and her ability, and was chugging along very nicely.

She didn't want speech therapy. She knew the baying, slavering mob of the media already, and although she was afforded a modicum of privacy due to her age, that would be swept aside in days to get an exclusive on that bombshell.

Maman would agree with her.

It would be "_bad publicity_"; that's why Maman would agree with her. Resentment boiled inside the young girl as she and Maman made their way home, home to Toni's spite and a collection of bubble-gum pop albums that had brought her mere recognition, not fame.

Her face had done that.

**----------**

Panting, her golden skin filmy with perspiration and her throat raw from an hour's singing, Ming-Ming retreated backstage. Sweeping her thick turquoise curls out of her eyes, she sank into a big, soft chair and shut her eyes.

Well, here she was. Just turned sixteen and she had the fame that she wanted. She had even taken up beyblading and proven to be more than adaquete. It had felt familiar somehow, as though someone had told her about it long before she had discovered it. There were tournaments for that, she had heard, fame in its own right, but Maman had put that idea down before it had really started with words like "distracting", "trivial", "rough", a _boy's_ sport - said with disdain.

This was despite the exceedingly high-profile girls that came up in virtually every news bulletin about the sport. One day, she would beyblade in front of Maman; show her Venus' power, how she had managed to incorporate singing into even her beyblading style.

One day. Magical words.

But magic didn't exist, everyone knew that.

"Excuse me, Ming-Ming?" She opened her eyes, laziness threading through her bones and making her sluggish, so sluggish that she barely blinked at the strange man in her dressing room.

"What d'you want?" she asked, raising her plucked eyebrows curiously.

"To offer you the chance of a lifetime." the man said simply, with a faint accent. Ming-Ming groaned inwardly; not another label who wanted her!

"How many times? I'm staying with my current producer!" she snapped. The tall, bulky man patted his hair down and gave her an almost unnoticeable once-over before saying softly,

"Even if I can give you what you want?" Their eyes locked, and Ming-Ming curled further up in her chair as the man told her about a corporation called BEGA, and the need for someone young and popular to become the "image" of the "new beyblading era" in a smooth, persuasive voice. "You have been chosen for this honour."

"Will I get paid?"

Boris surveyed the small, cutely attractive girl in front of him with well-concealed dislike. Means to an end, he reminded himself, means to an end.

"Of course." he replied.

"And I would definitely get to beyblade?"

"In front of hundreds." The glint of interest was well and truly alight in her huge eyes; now, to reel her in. "You would be the new face of beyblading, blading, and blading _well_, will be essential. Do you consider your skills up to it?" The perfect bait; never failed on the famous.

"Yes!" His lip curled in a nasty grin at the note of defiance in her voice.

"Report to the BEGA headquarters in Japan by next Tuesday, and we'll see if you're worth being given this opportunity."

"Ok!"

Something in the look he gave her made her change that to a quick, irreverant; "Yessir!"

"Very good. I will see you there." He left with an overly dramatic swirl of his long, dark coat. Giggling softly - once she was sure he had gone - at how silly he looked, Ming-Ming sat back to consider her options.

After half an hour of thinking, it all boiled down to; did she stay in a career that was comfortably established but not going anywhere, or did she take the massive risk of branching out into this new market, where new, fun skills were required and her face and voice would be seen and heard worldwide?

Well, really, there was no choice at all if she put it like that.

**---------**

She stood and stared up at the stars, tiny blobs of light in the endless darkness that winked at her comfortingly. Well, BEGA was finished, and she was glad. The fame had been amazing - the crowds! The cheers! But in return, she had been expected to throw aside her morals and any sense of decency - to attack their opposition in the middle of the night at their own home, for heaven's sake! She had stood up there, she had stopped it! Still, she had stood and watched passively as Garland brutalised Tala, as Brooklyn went slowly insane with the help of Hiro and allowed the dark hunger of his bit-beast to take over his mind. She had obeyed Boris' every command.

So, no, she wasn't happy with herself. Quite the opposite.

Where could she go now? She was seventeen, old enough to decide for herself. The idea of returning to France and sinking back into the role of sugary pop princess made her stomach lurch. The raw power of beyblading, the adrenalin rush that filled her right to the top even when she was simply _watching_ a match was worth everything now. No, she couldn't go back. She was a blader now, for better or for worse.

Suddenly, she caught the sound of whirring metal. A beyblade, she identified silently, and, drawn like a moth to a flame, she followed the sound into the dark woods, where trees were less than her arm's length apart in all directions.

"Watch out!" Starled, she looked for the voice until an ominous creaking made her spin round and shriek in fright at the massive tree crashing down directly above her. Blind with fright, she dashed any which way, her mind conjuring horrifying mental pictures of being trapped under the fallen tree and bleeding slowly to death. As the tree hit the floor with a thud that shook the ground, she ran even faster, stumbling in her high heels and skimpy little skirt. "Damn you, stand _still_!" She obeyed so suddenly that she nearly fell over, eyes stretched wide and breath coming in little, panicked gasps. She screamed again as fire licked over the huge tree that had landed only a few steps away from her. "Oh, for fuck's sake ..." came the exasperated, dismissive voice again, and a figure appeared, silloheted against the silent blue flames.

_Kai_, Ming-Ming realised with relief, recognising the cold, single-minded young man that had beaten Brooklyn through sheer blind stubborness - then, with a strange, floating feeling - _Kai?_

Memories of a loud party, of a soft cheek coated with facepaint.

The same facepaint that she could see shadowing the angular face of the blader now, ineffectually covering deep cuts and bruises, as he stood there scowling at her.

"Kai? Do you remember me?" she asked in eager French. She was so sure it was him! A look of scorn crossed Kai's scarred face.

"Brooklyn didn't get to my mind, you know. Why shouldn't I remember you, Ming-Ming?" Ming-Ming's face felt hot as she asked softly,

"But from when we were little? Do you remember then?" Scorn changed to pure confusion and Kai moved towards her and leant against a tree only four or five steps away, eyes wide and watchful.

"No. I'd never met you before BEGA."

"You had!" Ming-Ming insisted. It was clearer now, the memory, and she was so certain that she would have bet her beyblade on it. Impulsively, she walked right to him, staring up at him hopefully. "I was the model, remember?"

Something flickered, just then, in his eyes - she saw it, she knew she saw it! "You told me to sing!" she went on breathlessly.

"Did I? I don't remember." he whispered. They were staring at each other; hadn't looked away yet. Slowly, so slowly, as if she was taming a wild animal, Ming-Ming reached out and poked Kai's painted, bloody cheek with her index finger, very gently.

"You're wearing makeup." she murmured gleefully. His face, distrustful, hard, giving nothing away, didn't change, but his lips moved minutely in a soundless whisper,

"It's face-paint."

"Isn't!" Ming-Ming replied. Again, that flicker, that ghostly whisper,

"Is." Ming-Ming was hot and shivery, her stomach was churning and fluttering. She didn't know why it was suddenly so important that he remember her, it just was; more important than anything. Her finger was still touching his cheek, ever so lightly, and he hadn't made a move to brush it off. Slowly, she placed her warm palm against his cold cheek. He didn't react. Their stare was intense - Ming-Ming felt as though she was slowly drowning under the searching amethyst of his eyes. As though reaching for a lifebelt, she put her other hand on his other cheek.

"Isn't." As if her whisper had broken a spell, Kai scowled and struck her hands away with a quick, sharp blow.

"I don't remember anything from when I was a kid, ok? Maybe I met you, maybe I didn't. I don't care. Just go away. I've got training to do." He turned around and walked away, casting her a hostile look as he left.

Ming-Ming looked at his retreating back and a tear slid slowly down her cheek.

"You're not the best yet." she called, a hint of spite in her voice.

"And you're still an idiot."

* * *

Well, there we are. If anyone was confused by that last bit, just re-read that first section when they were both mini. Lamb and everyone else, I hope you like it, 'cause I have my doubts. It's supposed to end ambiguously. And I just spelt that word wrong. Oh well. 

Review please!!

xIlbx


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